


Time for a break

by Perelka_L



Category: SCP Foundation
Genre: And as such this is a mess most likely, Mountain of references, headcanon dump, resurrection AU, there is no canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 13:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12532984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perelka_L/pseuds/Perelka_L
Summary: A visit to cafeteria and walk around a city are not complete without politics, threats, mysteries and desire to die.





	Time for a break

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. I would like to underline that it's all SunnyClockwork's fault.   
> Kind of happening in Resurrection canon, except not really. No, I have no idea how canon works in this universe, if it exists at all. Does it?

It's all about concealment, hiding in crevices of modernity, adapting and taking on new forms on the outside to blend in with oblivious world around.

Like here and now, in the heart of the city, late afternoon being that peculiar time of day after rush hour, people being busy in their homes or shops or places of leisure, to catch a breath and nourish themselves and rest. Streets weren't empty, far from it, but gone was the hurry, pace of city becoming slower.

Robert Bumaro had, according to rules set by normality, no formal job or family. Maybe this was why people rushing through veins of the city fascinated him, year by year air growing more and more crowded around him. He didn't mind, as he didn't need to breathe. There were many things he didn't have to do and yet he did, choosing to adapt.

(Cities had eyes, watching, penetrating lives. It was all about adaptation. Concealment. Hiding.

Or maybe it was paranoia, still thriving after all those years.)

He glanced into his cup. None of that plastic or styrofoam cups stuff, simple black coffee with milk. He didn't need sustenance but he enjoyed the way it stimulated his receptors while not bothering rest of his body too much. He sometimes wondered how his previous (imperfect) body would react to same sensations. Judging by the fact that so many in the city drank coffee, both out of necessity and leisure, he'd maybe enjoy it.

Sitting opposite him was a shadow. It looked just like the man he once knew but it wasn't _him_ , it was just a shadow. A sharply dressed shadow still waiting for his ice cream dessert. They didn't exchange a word since shadow sat opposite him, dark almond eyes watching his every movement, even when waiter arrived to take (their) orders.

Bumaro at first thought the shadow was a product of his own mind but had to remind himself that his body was now, for all intents and purposes, perfect. His brain was dead, replaced by machinery and, more recently, cybernetics. It had no right to succumb to any illnesses or delusions.

He found out that shadow was visible for others too, and that bore new questions. Why shadow came to him? Was the shadow really _him_? Or was it just a vision, a reality recalling _his_ old shape after what _he_ did to it?

Shadow didn't look out of place. It also followed unwritten rules of concealment. It looked human, even if _he himself_ wasn't fully human in the first place. Shadow looked like then, millennia ago, when they first met, just a little bit older, its eyes bloodthirsty, skin covered by neat, elegant clothes.

Ever since Bumaro moved here, he has been seeing the shadow more and more often, once every few years. It's not that he wasn't seeing it ever since the battle, the exile, the return to the living world, but shadow never was so bold as to sit opposite him in a coffee shop.

That is, until recently.

_It's just an echo,_ Bumaro assured himself. _Just a shadow._

The shadow received its ice cream and Bumaro drank more of his coffee. The shadow grinned.

“They are moving, aren't they," the shadow said and Bumaro struggled not to grip the cup too tight. That wouldn't do, he'd damage both his skin substitute and cup itself.

"Yes, they are," he answered. "Everyone is walking as if on needles, watching who will misstep first to descend on each others' throats."

Shadow grinned, it's eyes on a strawberry on a spoon. "You don't like this situation very much, do you?"

"The only war I care about is the war with you."

The shadow of Great Karcist Ion chuckled and got back to eating his ice cream. Bumaro looked away, wondering.

How the shadow knew about movements between The Foundation, Global Occult Coalition and other forces was beyond him but it wasn't something unusual. The shadow knew a lot, too much sometimes for Bumaro to feel comfortable with. Shadow's grin faded and Bumaro braced himself.

"You felt the shift, didn't you? Someone tampered with the Heart."

Bumaro nodded. One night few years ago he lost consciousness when the Ichor awoke and overloaded all his senses. When he woke up, he could sense that the orld has changed. Not by much, but enough for Mekhane herself to react and that was enough for Bumaro to be more alert than usual.

"You felt it too, then?" He asked.

"I did," It replied. "Even if I shouldn't, I did.”

Did the shift have any connection with Foundation's new Task Force? That for sure did push tensions further and Bumaro shut his eyes. He was worried. Project Ennui still wasn't completed, so he couldn't imagine why would anyone risk so much. It was still too early for Echthroi Protocol. In case the worst came and tensions divided Triumvirate, the Church remained defenseless in its entirety, even so close to whole as never before - and that couldn't do.

The shadow sitting in front of him was an excellent reminder of that. At that, for once the shadow wasn’t smiling and wasn’t looking at Bumaro, instead staring outside, sucking on spoon in his mouth thoughtfully. That sight alone worried him more than previous grins and reminders of the past, as that meant that shadow was thinking about the _future_.

Bumaro wasn't foolish enough to hope  _he_ didn't have some sort of long game going on. Like tendrils buried deep under the earth, waiting for a proper moment to be unearthed and strangle the curious. He'd draw comparison to cancer if that wasn't repulsing him enough.

The waitress took away the empty dishes. There was not much else to do but leave, but neither felt like moving. Bumaro would get up and go, but what if shadow didn't make a move? Even if shadow was most likely harmless, it was _his_ shadow.

Who else the shadow visited? What was the shadow doing when it was outside Bumaro's reach? Was it tending to what _he_ buried so many years ago? Or was it something else, another sarkic secret hidden away from the world?

Bumaro loathed that. Lack of knowledge was always a weakness, and this world was built atop the mountain of mysteries.

The waitress arriving to collect payment saved him trouble. He paid for both of them, left a tip, and used the opportunity to gather up the coat.

They left the cafeteria. Sky was just that little bit darker than usual, rare rain gahering up and coming for them, but neither paid attention.

Bumaro was keen on wandering around as long as shadow was present. Something about possibility of the shadow knowing where he lived unnerved him. Not that Bumaro needed to rest, although he longed to come back to his home, her temple, and meditate.

Shadow will leave sooner or later anyway.

“Tell me this then,” shadow started, walking next to Bumaro, “you know perfectly where those people keep parts of your God, don't you?” Bumaro glanced at the shadow but didn't dignify it with an answer.

“I know what you can do.” Shadow whispered, stopping.

The lightning flashed across the skies, heavy drops of rain started to fall. The world became just a little darker and Bumaro turned to the shadow in the moment the thunder made the air tremble. People walking by started to walk faster, run, covering their heads with random objects, all equally surprised by the rain; but Bumaro and the shadow stood where they were.

The shadow was grinning.

“Your whole has been dedicated to the Machine. And I know that if you ever wanted, you could level this whole city with a mere thought.” The shadow briefly pointed at their surrounding, bloodthirsty grin on his face. “It's nothing but glass and steel, after all. Such a convenience.”

He could. Of course Bumaro could. Even without drawing into Ichor he could, metals obeying under his thoughts without a touch, and sometimes not even only this. He knew he could tap into the reality with his conscience and it would bend, cowering, because of his nature.  
  
“I could.” He replied.

“Then what is stopping you from taking it all?”

The rainfall was getting harsher. Streets became empty. Both of them were completely wet, water clinging to clothes and bodies. Shadow’s dark hair were sticking to his face, his skin was shining. Bumaro had droplets of it inside his body, but he didn't feel any of it.

He stared at shadow, thoughts dead and quiet, something akin to shock taking him over.

“You always go on about rebuilding the Machine, and yet, after all those years, with this power in your hands you don't do anything.” Shadow took few steps closer. His suit was clinging to his skin. “And yet, for long years you didn't do anything. You send your lackeys in half-hearted attempts, nothing else.”

Shadow buried his hand in Bumaro’s hair, tangling his fingers in wet, steel strands.

“Are you so scared of death, Robert?”

It was the first time the Shadow used his name. Machinery inside him was turning fast, warmth spreading through his body.

“Is this fear why you are here, _Ion_?”

The shadow’s grin disappeared in a flash, it's eyes widened. Bumaro never needed to blink, but he did it anyway this time, and this was enough for the shadow to disappear. Rain was quick to fill in the empty space, steel hair moved back into its place. Bumaro was alone.

He took a step and then another. His clothes clung to his body but he didn't mind, it was easy to disregard sensations associated with temperature. He walked back home in the rain. The streets were almost empty.

He tried his best to disregard the way the Shadow was breathing when it was so close, hand in hair, rain pooling in the collarbones and sweetest promise of death in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look at me.  
> Thank you for reading, but please don't look at me.


End file.
